


Terra Incognita Tag

by PapayaK



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e20 Terra Incognita, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:50:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapayaK/pseuds/PapayaK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a tag to season 4, episode 20, 'Terra Incognita.' I absolutely love, love, loved this episode and it killed me that we didn't get just a little bit more of the rescue at the end. Here's what I think might have happened. Dialog taken from the episode is in italics.</p><p>Finch - to John: "You're missing the point… Some things simply cannot be replaced."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m new to the fandom, and haven’t actually seen everything that leads up to this - so please bear with me if I get anything wrong...
> 
> First chapter is because Krista asked for it. I hope it lives up to expectations.

oO0Oo

Root: _“He’s really got you worried. Doesn’t he, Harry?”  
_ Finch: _“John has always maintained a certain… distance... But this is not like him.”  
_ Root: _“So have you found anything?”  
_ Finch: _“I managed to isolate his phone’s last connection to our mesh network. Unfortunately, the signal was lost soon after. And I have_ no other means _of determining his location...”  
_ Root: _“I’m sorry, Harry”_

oO0Oo

Finch stared at his computer screen. He’d tried fifteen different ways to locate Mr. Reese; none of them successful. And that was _after_ he’d known Reese would be impossible to find. 

He felt an irrationally strong urge to call Mr. Reese’s phone for the twelfthtime. Doing that, he understood logically, would be a completely pointless course of action.

He did it anyway.

Finch had, years ago, begun to recognize that peculiar and unpleasant feeling that meant: _John’s in trouble._

It was not something supernatural, or telepathic, or any other ridiculous device found only in fiction. It was simply an exhaustive knowledge of and familiarity with Reese’s habits and abilities. Reese appeared completely mysterious and unpredictable to the numbers - to their enemies - to anyone he wanted. 

But not to Finch.

Mr. Reese had come to accept how well Finch knew him and he’d stopped fighting it a long while ago. Now he let himself be predictable and (Finch hoped) he appreciated the comfort of it - the trust. Although he _did_ still maintain a certain distance.

That distance had increased greatly upon the loss of Joss Carter.   The distance had become half a continent, and then very nearly half a world.   The distance may have become permanent if not for the intervention of the machine.

But that distance- which Finch had - and always would - respect was not in play now.   This was something different. This was not like him.

His current ‘behavior’ if it could be called that, was completely outside of his habit. There was no discernable reason this time and therefore... John was in trouble.

Finch had no way to find him and no idea of what to do next.

At that moment the phone rang.  

Finch moved to answer, hoping beyond hope that it was Reese.

Even Root's head popped up at the sound. She told herself it was just because Harry's anxiety was contagious, but if she were truthful, she was worried about the big lug too, and so was her mistress.

"Hello?!"

“Hey.” It was, disappointingly, Fusco. “You hear from Tall, Dark, and Missing?”

Finch pursed his lips. His gaze, hopeful a moment ago, fell. “No. I was rather hoping you were calling with news of him.”

“Well, actually I might be… You said he was working the Patterson case? Guy’s family got whacked a few years ago?”

Finch physically cringed at the indelicacy of the detective’s words, but paid attention. After all, Chase Patterson was their latest number, _and_ the case which Reese had been investigating. “Yes, Detective, that is correct. What can you tell me?”

“Well.” Fusco responded. “Thing is… You happen to know who _last_ worked on that case?”

“No, Detective… I’m afraid I do not.” Finch responded with exaggerated patience, understanding that the detective enjoyed knowing something he didn’t. While he listened, he began typing, re-opening the information he’d collected for John on Chase Patterson.

“Carter.” Fusco responded with finality.

Finch took a moment to consider the weight that might carry for John, and then asked the detective to elaborate.

“Look - I’m not… y’know - so in touch with my emotions…”

“I am aware of that, Detective...” Finch interrupted, wanting him to get on with it.

“But.. If I had a thing for Carter… Y’know… I could maybe want to see this thing finished… A case she never solved… Never got the chance to see it through... If I were that guy - I might look into it.”

Finch sighed. “Where might one go about ‘looking into it?’” he asked.

“Okay - so the Coiffed Columbo left the file in his desk - I figured it was okay to go through his stuff since you were so worried and all.”

“I was merely concerned…” Finch amended.

“Yeah - whatever.” Fusco continued. “I guess he can memorize everything he sees or somethin’, because he left the file and it’s pretty obvious where we should be looking.”

With barely contained impatience, Finch asked, “ _Where_ , Detective?”

“The family’s got a cabin up in the mountains… you want I should-”

“I will have a car pick you up momentarily, Detective. Please bring your sidearm… _And the address_.” Finch was already on his feet, gathering up his warmest overcoat and double checking that a fully supplied first aid kit would be in the car that he and Detective Fusco took into the mountains.

He hoped he was overreacting. He hoped that they would find John and that he would be fine and even amused at their concern. But he knew John was far too resourceful to be out of contact for no reason and for this amount of time.

He was in trouble.

Finch only hoped they weren’t too late.

oO0Oo  
TBC…  
oO0Oo 

Please leave me a note and let me know what you think so far...


	2. Chapter 2

**oO0Oo**  
  


Joss _: It’s like what you told me before: whether I liked it or not I wasn’t alone…  
_ _Neither are you._  

John _: Will you stay with me?  
_ _Just for a little bit?_

Joss _: Yes  
_ _Of course  
_ _Just hold on, John..._

There was really nothing left for him to hold on to. But because she asked, he would try...

_..._

Headlights in the distance. He waited a moment to make certain that they were real and not just another hallucination.

John _: Hey Joss  
_ _We made it_  

But she was no longer there…

An emotion that was equal parts loss and acceptance flowed through him as his eyes slid back toward the lights.

**oO0Oo**

Reflexively, in spite of the fact that his body was dying, a part of his mind examined the approaching vehicle for threats. It wouldn't be the first time an enemy had appeared when he so desperately needed a friend. He watched as the car, rather recklessly considering the ice and snow, pulled over, the passenger door open before the car had stopped moving. When it did, the figure that emerged moved with a very distinctive limp.

_Finch_.

With Fusco behind the wheel.

John’s eyes slid closed in relief. He could rest - finally - just for a moment.

oO0Oo

“Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese!”

He heard Finch’s voice as if from far away.

He felt a wave of cold air as the car door beside him opened. He found it vaguely interesting that he could barely detect the change when his own skin was so similar in temperature.

“John!”

He realized belatedly that he should really open his eyes. Finch was there to rescue him. He should at least have the courtesy to make eye contact, but he was just too tired.

“Is he dead?” Fusco’s voice sounded like he was underwater.

“John?”

Finch was obviously trying to ignore Lionel’s question. _‘Good idea...’_ John thought. But the concern in Finch’s voice worried him. He felt fingertips at his throat - checking for a pulse, he realized, and made the herculean effort to raise his eyelids. “Finch.” He whispered.

He saw Finch’s small, pained smile of relief. Heard Fusco exclaim something - but he wasn’t sure quite what. Then the detective said something about Patterson and his voice moved farther away.

Finch was talking and he tried to pay attention. “I am sorry, Mr. Reese, that we didn’t get here sooner.”

“S’okay, Finch…” Talking took so much effort, he paused to rest after every few words. “Didn’t tell… anybody…” Finch’s hands were doing something with his coat and shirt, but he could barely feel it. “Joss said… no one’s… coming.”

The hands stilled.

“Joss? Detective Carter?” Finch asked in concern.

He smiled sleepily.

“John… Detective Carter is-”

“Gone… I know…” He continued to smile, sadly now. “But she was here… helped me… Wouldn’t… have... made...” It was just too much trouble to finish the thought, _wouldn't have made it without_ _her_ , so he fell silent and the feeling of loss returned.

“Ah.”

The brief response told John that Finch really had no idea what to make of his words- but it didn’t matter.

In fact, at the moment, there seemed to be very little that did.

Then Fusco was back. “Looks like Patterson OD'd, but he’s still breathing. You know who the popsicle over there is?” He gestured toward the body in the snow.

The question jolted John to a slightly higher level of alertness. _The case mattered_. That was why he was here in the first place - to close Carter’s case. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and tried to explain since he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance. “Brother… _half_ -brother... Forced Chase to take the pills… Killed his family…” He raised his eyes to Finch’s, hoping the man could make sense of his explanation.

Finch nodded, mostly to keep John from exerting himself further. “I understand, John. We’ll take care of it. Now let’s get you someplace warm.” Finch was shivering after only a few minutes at this temperature. John had been here for hours - slowly losing heat - slowly freezing.

John frowned as ‘someplace warm’ didn’t sound like a very good idea. “No... Too hot…”

Fusco had climbed into the car from the other side and had already tried the frozen ignition. But at John’s words he shared a look with Finch. “That ain’t good.”

“No, it is not.” Finch agreed. He hadn’t thought the situation could become more urgent, but it had. “Put your arm around my shoulders, John. We’ll get you to the car. You’re going to be fine.”

When there was no movement Finch leaned closer, “John?” he asked gently.

John’s slight grimace was almost petulant, “Trying…” His arms simply would not respond to his commands no matter how hard he tried. Lifting his eyelids had taken a supreme effort. His arms were quite a bit heavier.

Finch sighed briefly, his worry growing by the moment. How cold could the human body become and still be able to recover? Take a significant amount of blood loss into account and how much of a chance did John actually have? But he wasn’t anywhere near giving up. “Please, forget I asked. Detective Fusco and I will handle things. You only need to hold on, John. Just _hold on_.”

Finch took his arm and pulled it over his shoulders as Fusco came around the front of the car and pulled his legs out onto the snow. _‘This is going to hurt...’_ thought John. Anticipating the pull he would feel stretching his wound, he braced himself.

Between them, Finch and Fusco managed to get John out of the car. Then, an arm over each of their shoulders, they pulled him towards the still running - _warm_ \- car. Finch simply ignored the pain in his back and the knowledge that tomorrow’s aches would be nearly unbearable. _Losing John_ would be unbearable. He would endure any pain if it meant keeping his friend alive.

oO0Oo   
TBC…   
oO0Oo

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really excited about posting this - I hope you like it.

**oO0Oo**

Being dragged didn’t hurt as much as John had anticipated. _‘Must be colder than I thought,’_ he mused absently. He thought about what first Carter and then Finch had told him, and he put all of his energy into just holding on. His surroundings began to fade in and out as he entered something that wasn’t quite consciousness.

Finch was breathing hard by the time they reached the car’s rear door. Fusco braced the taller man against the car and opened the door while instructing Finch to get in the other side.

Finch obeyed, but when he reached across the back seat to help guide John in, he was surprised to see Fusco peeling off John’s warm woolen overcoat. “What are you doing, Detective?”

“You got heated seats back there, right?”

“Yes, of course.” Finch interrupted, realizing the detective was correct - the coat would only serve to hold the chill in John’s body at this point.

As gently as he could, Fusco lowered John into the back seat. Finch reached to grasp under his arms and together they slid him across until his head and shoulders rested in Finch’s lap. Fusco tucked his long legs in after them, tossed in the overcoat, and shut the door.

“Detective! You must go after Patterson-” Finch called through the closed door.

“Already on it,” was tossed over Fusco’s shoulder as he headed through the cold back towards the house.

While he waited, Finch managed to remove John’s suit coat as well and arranged both garments over him as makeshift blankets. Removing the outergarments brought the blood soaked shirt into stark relief in the dim light and Finch was forced to consider the fact that perhaps they were too late after all. Perhaps John had held on just long enough to see his rescuers, but not to _be_ rescued.

Memories of the times John had been badly injured flooded his mind-   It had been a close thing in those instances. It would be worse now, considering how far they had to go to reach help. At least they could begin to get him warm. But Finch paused in his efforts when it suddenly sank in that the cold was actually helping to keep John alive. As he warmed, the blood would pour from his wounds at an even faster rate. Finch reached across John and grabbed the first aid kit. He pulled out a package of Celox, opened it, and poured it liberally into John’s wounds. Then he gathered up bandages to press into both the entry and exit wounds, just as the front car door opened with a wave of frigid air, and a limp Chase Patterson was deposited unceremoniously into the front seat.

Fusco didn’t say a word about the man’s condition. He didn’t need to. Patterson’s situation was much the same as John’s. He was slowly dying. Either he would survive long enough to reach medical attention - or he wouldn’t. And there wasn’t anything to say about that.

John had been watching events unfold as if from a distance. The scene would fade in and out as if in a badly edited movie. He’d observed himself being pulled from one car and into another, and was feeling surprisingly little pain. But now, as warmth began to seep into his battered body, discomfort was beginning to return. It returned with a vengeance when Finch applied pressure to the bullet holes in his chest and back. It was all he could do to repress a moan.

Fusco was panting as he dropped into the driver’s seat. “Guy’s heavier than he looks!” he complained. He reached over and pulled the seat belt around Patterson, buckling him into place. When he had the unconscious man secured, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a water bottle which he tossed over the seat to Finch. “It’s just water - but I popped it in the microwave so it’s warm. Get him to drink it if you can.” He put the car into gear rather forcefully. “Hey - you use that new blood clotting thing?”

Finch was surprised at the thoroughness - and thoughtfulness of the detective. “Well done, Detective. And yes, the Celox seems to be working as advertised.” He commented, and looked down at John.

John had not moved nor made a sound since they had taken him from the frozen car and Finch looked down at the too pale face resting against his chest. The intimacy of their positions felt awkward and uncomfortable, but if his own warmth would help John, he would endure. This was no time for social propriety. John’s eyes were sunken. His cheekbones stood out even more than usual and his lips no longer held any color save a tinge of blue. Needing to reassure himself once more, Finch rechecked John’s pulse, while managing to keep pressure on his wounds - the clotting agent would not work without continued pressure.

“M’still here.” John whispered, gasping. “Maybe... not quite... so hard?”

Finch cringed in sympathy. After everything John had been through the last thing he wanted to do was cause more pain. “I’m afraid I must stop the bleeding, John.” He spoke firmly. But then, “I’m sorry.” he finished in a whisper. He shifted slightly so the arm beneath John’s shoulders would serve both to hold the bandage in place on the smaller entry wound, and to lift his head slightly. “Here, try to drink this.” he murmured and held the bottle of warm water to John’s lips.

John managed a small sip and then coughed painfully. Finch grimaced and looked away. It was then that he noticed they were already moving. Fusco was driving just as fast as he dared given the conditions.

Since Finch couldn’t maintain pressure on the larger exit wound and hold the water bottle at the same time he did the more necessary of the two. He tucked the warm water bottle under the coats covering John’s shivering torso and pressed down harder on the mass of gauze that was slowly becoming saturated. 

John moaned. He was deciding that he actually preferred the cold at this point. The spreading warmth was revealing far too many aches and pains: His chest, of course, but also his extremities were starting to throb miserably as circulation returned. He was beginning to think it might be nice if he would just pass out. But he knew that if he did, he probably wouldn’t wake up again.  

To distract himself from his pain, he thought back to the warmth and kindness, the _love_ that Carter had offered him. “Miss her.” He whispered to Finch. “So… much…”

“Yes… So do I… We all do.” Finch murmured to him. He now believed that the apparent hallucination brought on by the last stages of hypothermia had very probably saved John’s life. John’s own subconscious - which had known what to do in order to survive - had presented itself to John in a form that would be the most comforting - the most helpful. “But I know that you do…” Finch pursed his lips, recalling what he had witnessed in the moments immediately following Detective Carter’s demise.

Before the night Carter was killed, Finch had seen his employee down, seen him hurting, seen him upset, angry, coldly furious... Even with Jessica - when Finch had seen John in the hospital, he’d seen a man in shock - a man tossed adrift on a sea of regret and betrayal, anger and pain. The awful night Joss died, he seen John utterly broken. Never had he seen the man lose control of his emotions so completely.

Finch had very much liked and respected Joss Carter, but he had not grasped precisely how much she meant to John until after she was gone. The two had been cut from different parts of the same cloth. Joss, in her own way, had been the only one truly capable of understanding the man John had become. Finch repeated himself in a whisper, “But I know that _you_ do...much more.”

“Finch?” Came the breathless inquiry.

“Yes, John?”

“How’d you find me?” He swallowed. “I didn’t… I should’ve…”

“You have Detective Fusco to thank. He realized the... _significance_ of the Patterson file… What it could potentially mean to you. He called with the location of the cabin, and we came.”

_‘...and we came...’_ The sentiment echoed in John’s mind. It was so simply stated as if it were self-evident.

“Fusco…” John whispered mostly to himself. Considering how they’d met it was really incredible what a dependable friend the man had become over the years. Then John asked “Why?” This time the whisper held just a touch of desperation.

“Why?” Finch repeated. He was puzzled and wondering if he’d heard correctly.

Then Finch slowly raised his head and stared, unseeing, out at the passing snowbanks. He was suddenly reminded of a conversation that had taken place not too long ago. He’d returned to the library following the conclusion of one of their cases only to find John packing away their first aid kit and cleaning up a mass of bloody gauze. Finch had frozen in surprise and concern as he had not known anyone had been injured.

John had looked a bit sheepish and had actually apologized. “Sorry, Finch. I haven’t had a chance to replenish the supplies at my apartment, and I knew you’d be fully stocked… I’ll replace what I’ve used.”

Finch had found that explanation disturbing on several levels.

For one thing, the first aid supplies he’d originally stocked and then made arrangements to be periodically restocked in John’s apartment were extensive. It bothered him that they were dwindling at such a rate.

It bothered him even more that he hadn’t known there’d been a need. John had not revealed that information - intentionally or unintentionally. Finch could usually tell, simply by tone of voice, or certain involuntary grunts when John had been injured. This time he’d missed it - probably by John’s design.

It was also troubling him because it was not the first time John had purposefully concealed his needs.

However, at the moment he’d been most concerned by the amount of blood on the gauze his friend was currently stuffing into a garbage bag. “Mr. Reese!” Finch had protested in concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been injured?” And Finch had caught a glimpse of honest surprise on John’s face. It was gone less than a second later to be replaced by a frown as if to say, ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

Finch’s jaw had nearly dropped. In his mind there was so much wrong with that question he didn’t know where to begin. But several things he’d suspected about his friend for some time now were solidified in his mind: John either saw himself as utterly self-sufficient -or… perhaps… utterly disposable? _They_ needed _him_ desperately, but he was making it abundantly clear that he felt no need of them. Or - Finch realized with sinking heart - he _wished_ to feel no need of them.

He’d been both hurt and disturbed by the revelation, as well as distressed _for_ his friend, so he’d responded aloud to John’s unspoken question: “Why on earth _wouldn’t_ you?”

John had given him an infinitesimal, one shouldered shrug and said simply, “No need.”

Finch had opened his mouth and then shut it again. Then he had watched as John had nonchalantly finished cleaning the table, gathered up the bag of refuse and brushed past him on the way out.

“Goodnight, Finch.” He’d spoken over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in the morning unless we get a number before that.” And he’d left for the night.

Finch had been left blinking then. He blinked now, and looked back down at John, whom he realized was still waiting for a response to his question.

“You _know_ why.” Finch protested. He realized rather suddenly that perhaps it wasn’t only John’s body that was hurting. John couldn’t fully grasp why they had wondered about him, worried about him, and then come looking for him.

“‘Cause you’re my friend.” John rasped.

Finch stared down at him. Interpreting John’s various tones of voice had always been a challenge. The man was extremely reticent. Listening to him was a bit like tasting wine - hints of varying flavors were often present.

In this simple statement, Finch heard physical pain, definitely. Beneath that there was some confidence (at least their friendship was something of which John was certain).

But Finch also heard wonder - as if John couldn’t - or wouldn’t - accept the full reality of the their friendship - nor its accompanying and inherent - vulnerability; a vulnerability which was anathema to John.

Maybe now - that wall was finally beginning to crumble.

Analyzing the few words John had spoken since they’d reached him, Finch asked gently, “What else did Detective Carter ‘talk’ to you about?”

John’s eyes drifted... unfocused. Talking with Finch was distracting and comforting. As he thought about the question he was glad to have a reason to ignore the fact that he was feeling weaker, detached - that his body was slowly fading. His lips curled into a bit of a smile again, this time, at his own expense. “Said... I should… do a better job of making friends…”

Finch frowned at that. After hours alone, bleeding in the frozen wilderness- Perhaps John was finally ready to listen.  

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “John... You have _known_ friendship... and you have known love…” He chewed his lip. “They often lead to pain - I know.” His voice faded a bit thinking of the losses they’d both experienced… but then he rallied. “But we are resilient, you and I.” Grimacing he looked again out at the cold night before continuing. “You _can_ feel those things again, John… There are those who sincerely _care_ about you- not just your skills, your… contributions to our mission - but about _you_.” He looked down at the eyes that were still watching him intently in spite of the fact that they were beginning to droop. “You only have to… You _need_ to let them- to let _us…_ in.” Finch paused in thought for a moment, then continued to murmur. “You have always maintained a certain… distance... Perhaps it is time that changed.” Finch frowned once more because John was losing consciousness and he wasn’t finished. He added a bit more urgency to his tone. “John- you have to understand... that whether you like it or not… you are not alone.”

The ice-pale blue eyes lost their fight and slid closed.

“John?” His first panicked thought as John seemingly lost consciousness was that he’d allowed himself to become distracted from his ministrations. That he’d eased up on the life-saving pressure he was putting on John’s wounds.

He hadn’t.

Physically, they were doing everything for John that they could under the circumstances. Whether it would be enough to save his life remained to be seen.

But Finch had realized that there was slightly more at stake here than he’d first realized. It was important to him that his friend accept this truth - _especially_ if these were to be John’s last moments.   “Were you listening to me, Mr. Reese?” He demanded.

John’s eyes had closed because he no longer had the strength to hold them open, but an infinitesimal smirk caught the corner of his mouth, and Finch could just barely make out the whispered “ _Always_.”

Sarcasm - not quite acceptance. Finch frowned, then sighed. This was something they would have to work on further - perhaps when John was _not_ gravely wounded and half frozen in the backseat of a car too far from medical attention.

The smirk remained as John’s breathing deepened slightly and became a bit more even. Finch checked his pulse once more and found it to be still weak - but marginally steadier. He felt John relax slightly - hopefully not in a loss of consciousness, but in sleep.

“Hey!” Fusco called over his shoulder. Concentrating on the treacherous roads, he’d been oblivious to the preceding conversation. “How we doin’? Wonderboy still with us? He gonna be okay?”

Finch looked out at the pink light seeping over the horizon signalling the dawn of a new day. He sighed as he thought of the miles they had left to go, and of the ‘distance’ yet to be travelled... “I hope so, Detective, I hope so.”

TBC... (?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oO0Oo  
> A/N I was uncomfortable writing this in the first place. "Terra Incognita" is the only 4th season episode I've seen.  
> As of this posting, I'm just over halfway through the 3rd season. For me, Carter's death is still fresh. The machine has only begun to 'speak.' There is still quite a bit of animosity between John and Ms. Groves... (will he ever forgive her for kidnapping Finch? - not that he should...)  
> Getting character voice right is extremely important to me so I was hesitant to write anything that would be beyond my knowledge, but I simply COULD NOT just leave that story to end like it did. 
> 
> oO0Oo  
> On the other hand - I’ve decided to write an ‘alternate ending to an alternate ending’ if you can believe it.  
> If you, like me, prefer everything to stay in line with the show, quit here.  
> If you want to read more of this story - even if it becomes a little OOC or AU (due to my lack of knowledge). Read on. I will attempt to answer most if not all of the questions people have asked in the comments on this story. (with special thanks to Ravenhusker for the inspiration) 
> 
> If you have questions, things you wish you’d seen in the episode - let me know and I’ll try to address them.
> 
> oO0Oo  
> All that being said, I reserve the right to come back and write more when I've caught up to everyone else. :-)  
> oO0Oo
> 
> And, as always - please let me know what you thought, if you have a moment...


	4. Tag to the Tag 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up about where the last chapter left off, but goes in a slightly more whumpy direction - and, as explained earlier, may become slightly OOC or AU - but not on purpose…
> 
> I have decided to post this in shorter sections so you can let me know if it’s going horribly wrong. Hopefully I can still fix it…
> 
> We need to back up a little bit so we can get a good run at this new section.
> 
> I hope you like it.

oO0Oo **  
**

John’s eyes drifted... unfocused.  Talking with Finch was distracting and comforting.  As he considered what Finch was saying, he was glad to have a reason to ignore the fact that he was feeling weaker, detached - that his body was slowly fading.   **  
**

“John- you have to understand... that whether you like it or not… you are not alone.” **  
**

The ice-pale blue eyes lost their fight and slid closed. **  
**

“John?”  Finch’s first panicked thought as John lost consciousness was that he’d allowed himself to become too distracted from his ministrations. That he’d eased up on the life-saving pressure he was putting on John’s wounds.   **  
**

He hadn’t.   **  
**

The problem was that he had no way of knowing exactly how much damage the bullet had done on its terrible path through John’s chest.  The external bleeding had all but stopped, but there could be more damage inside.  Plus he was still very cold.  They were doing everything for John that they could under the circumstances.  Whether it would be enough to save his life remained to be seen. **  
**

Finch felt John relax slightly.  He was encouraged - perhaps John’s condition was stabilizing a bit.  But then he noticed John’s breathing.  It was suddenly much shallower - almost gasps - with odd, uneven spaces between.  A surge of adrenaline flooded him and   his now bloody fingers immediately sought the artery in John’s throat only to find nothing.  John’s heart had stopped. **  
**

“Hey!” Fusco called over his shoulder.  Concentrating on the treacherous roads, he’d been oblivious to everything going on in the back seat.  “How we doin’?  Wonderboy still with us?  He gonna be okay?” **  
**

Finch’s wide, panicked eyes met the detective’s in the rear-view mirror.  “No!  We have to stop.  Now, Detective.  I can’t find a pulse!” **  
**

Before Fusco could respond, or even move foot from gas to brake, the gloomy interior of the car was suddenly flooded with extremely bright light.  The night was split with a sound like thunder.  It took the two men a second to recognize what was happening.  A helicopter was descending over the road, keeping pace with them, it’s spotlight tracking their location.   **  
**

Fusco hit the brakes - sending the car into a skid and very nearly running it off the road.  Only a last minute, expert correction kept the car from slamming into a snow bank.  When it came to a stop, the helicopter landed as close as possible on the road in front of them.  
  
Two people emerged first: a paramedic from one side, and Root from the other.  Finch slid, as quickly and gently as possible out from under John and got out of the car.   
****  
The paramedic approached him with a thunderous look on his face.  “I don’t know who you think you are - but this is not how this works!  This woman shows up with a suitcase full of money and a gun and tells us to come out here or else?  Who do you think you are?!” ****  
  
Finch had turned to stare at Root while he listened to the man, but now he faced him.  He was desperate to get this man - who could, just possibly, save John’s life - into a more cooperative mood.  “Please believe me when I tell you that I did not authorize her actions - in fact, I completely disagree with her methods...”  At these words he glared at Root who smiled innocently back. Then he tried to explain.  “- but not with her purpose...  We desperately need your help.  A man-” **  
**  
“Two men-” Fusco emphasized.

“-is dying…” Finch continued, ignoring the interruption.  “A good man.  A man the world cannot afford to lose.”  He met the paramedic’s gaze franticly.  “Please...  I can't find a pulse!" **  
**

The other paramedic also exited the helicopter.  He had, apparently, already bowed to the inevitable because he was carrying a large case of equipment in one hand and a backboard in the other. He strode purposefully past his partner towards the car.  Fusco met him and began reporting everything they knew about the conditions of the two men. **  
**  
“I told you, Benjamin.” Root murmured sweetly from where she stood still holding a gun on the first paramedic.

Ben threw one last glare in her direction and went to join his partner. **  
  
** “ Thank-you .” Finch told him sincerely as he passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oO0Oo  
> Let me know how we’re doing so far…  
> oO0Oo


	5. Tag to the Tag 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (to Phoenix615, who wanted to know where Root got the money - I figure it came from the same place (or a similar one, depending) as another time John needed a suitcase of money to facilitate his medical care. S1 Ep10 ‘Number Crunch’. The money belonged to Finch - Root just knew where to find it)

_“I told you, Benjamin.” Root murmured sweetly from where she stood still holding a gun on the first paramedic._

_Ben threw one last glare in her direction and went to join his partner._

_“Thank-you.” Finch told him sincerely as he passed._

oO0Oo

Root came to stand next to Finch and handed him a folder as she explained. “I gave her all the information we had on the Patterson case. She ran some simulations, and this was the most likely outcome.” She shrugged. “She doesn’t want to lose John either.”

Finch just stared at her, disbelieving. Then he turned back towards the car where the paramedics had pulled John out and laid him flat on the backboard.

They worked over him unsuccessfully for nearly ten minutes before deciding on another course of action. Ben stood and addressed the three while his partner went to retrieve a second backboard. “With the temperatures out here - we’ve got little to no chance of reviving either of them. It’s just too cold. We need to get going.” He started to turn away but Finch stopped him.

“But his heart…”

When Ben turned back there was a note of compassion in his expression. “It’s bad.” he admitted. “But don’t lose hope yet. Nobody’s dead until they’re _warm_ and dead, okay?”

Finch just stared after him as he returned to John’s side.

Fusco went to help carry the two victims to the chopper.

Root laid a hand on Finch’s shoulder. “You’ll be going with him, Harry. He needs you.”

Ben overheard her comment and protested. “We got a weight limit. There’s no room. You want to put your friends at risk?”

Root just looked at him as if he were a rather slow child. Gesturing purposefully with her weapon she replied. “Harry doesn’t weigh much. It’ll be fine. I have it on good authority.”

Then she turned back to Finch. “Everything you need is in the folder… I’ll ride with Lionel.”

Ben and Fusco wore matching expressions of distaste, but finished loading and securing the patients.

Resigned and quietly thankful, Finch climbed aboard the helicopter and secured himself in the front seat. He looked out the window down at the other two climbing into the car to escape the swirling snow kicked up by the rotors as they rose and sped away into the night.

oO0Oo

Flying through the night, the noise of the rotors prevented Finch from hearing (or being heard by) the paramedics who were equipped with headsets. He was forced to simply observe. It was horrible to feel so thoroughly useless, and to see his friend so absolutely helpless. John was completely limp. He was unresponsive. He was pale. He was… Finch nearly panicked as the appropriate adjectives flowed through his mind. John looked lifeless. But then… he _was_ lifeless. _He was a corpse._ “Please, Mr. Reese,” he whispered, “Come back to us.”

Patterson was given an injection to hopefully stabilize him until they could reach the hospital. There was little that could be safely done for his condition in the field.

Finally, after what seemed an impossibly long time, the heart monitor attached to John’s chest came to life sluggishly. Ben spared a moment to nod reassuringly in Finch’s direction before returning to his efforts to get John stabilized and warm.

Finch looked at his watch and swallowed hard. John had been _dead_ for nearly half an hour.

Before he knew it, they were landing on the roof of a hospital and for once, Finch didn’t care which one it was. This situation was far beyond their usual resources. He would just have to try and manage the danger. He finally remembered the folder in his hands and opened it. Inside he found several printouts regarding Ben, his partner, the pilot, and apparently, several other members of the hospital staff. Information provided either by the machine, or some of Root’s research. Either way, each page was a detailed report of something the individual wanted to hide or something they needed. It was all the leverage Finch would need to keep John safe at the hospital until he was well enough to be moved to one of their safe houses.

Staff flooded out of the hospital to meet them and both men were rushed inside.

oO0Oo   
TBC…   
oO0Oo


	6. Tag to the Tag 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay – my eldest graduated this weekend. It’s been a bit hectic.

oO0Oo  
Tag to the Tag 3  
oO0Oo 

Before he knew it, they were landing on the roof of a hospital and for once, Finch didn’t care which one it was.

Staff flooded out of the hospital to meet them and both men were rushed inside.

Finch meant to follow, but Ben stopped him, obviously prepared to continue his protests. His partner and the pilot stood behind him. They may have been less vocal but they were no less angry.

Finch took a deep breath and spoke before they could begin. “As long as you continue to cooperate in these matters… Benjamin, in addition to the funds given to the three of you by my associate-” He glanced around at all of them “Which can be considered a _legal,_ anonymous donation, divide it amongst yourselves as you like…” He turned back to Ben specifically. “Your sister’s care will be paid for for the next two years.” He then turned to the partner. “Allen, continue to cooperate in this matter and no one will ever know what happened on the night of July 16th, 2009. All evidence will be destroyed.” Then, to the pilot, he said, “The woman who was about to be hired in your place, has been given the opportunity to work at a hospital in Maryland, and you have just become the owner of this aircraft,” he gestured at the chopper, “making you indispensable to this facility for as long as you want to continue working here.” He looked at each disbelieving face. “Do we have a problem, gentlemen?”

One by one they all turned away shaking their heads.

Finch found his way to a waiting area and settled his stiff muscles into an uncomfortable chair with a cup of hot but terrible tea from a vending machine. He felt as if he would never be warm again.

What would he do if they lost John?

_‘I won’t be around forever… ’_

They were in the middle of a war. He had very strong doubts that he, Fusco and Root would be sufficient to the task at hand. They _needed_ John… or someone like him? The thought of trying to _replace_ John…? Even if he wanted to, he had no time to locate, vet, and hire someone… And he really, _really_ didn’t want to.

John could not be replaced.

His short list of potential employees - once carefully maintained - had long since fallen into neglect. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even looked at it.

In the very beginning, he’d had high hopes that John would be the ideal partner in his work - and John had _far_ surpassed allhis expectations. Finch’s list of qualifications had included needs and wants. Skills his employee absolutely must have, but also characteristics that would make it easier for Finch to work with him or her. John had all of them and more. Not only was he highly skilled and capable, he’d never seen the work they do as a paycheck - or a way to meet girls. He’d never seen it as a game, or treated any of the numbers poorly - unless of course, they deserved it - in which cases, Finch had wholeheartedly agreed.

John almost always held the advantage, physically _and_ intellectually - but was both strong and humble enough to not feel a need to press it. Finch had seen this himself - he sometimes got the feeling he was offering explanations John didn’t really need. But he had seen it most often with Miss Shaw. The woman had a rather large chip on her shoulder, but John had not felt a need to knock it off. Instead he had respected her and her abilities and allowed her to do as she liked, sometimes with quiet amusement.

Finch smiled softly as he remembered John’s concession of simply making noise as he approached. He didn’t normally make much noise when he moved - a habit born out of survival in the field. But he always remembered to when he approached Finch. It was the little things like that Finch knew he could never replace.

And, most importantly, since they’d begun their work together, John had not killed a single person unless there had been absolutely no choice. Even in those cases, it haunted him. Finch could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. The work they did was a redemptive process for him and every life lost (no matter how deserving of death they might be) was a step back - the same as it was for Finch.

And they had - unexpectedly - become friends.

Yes, he reaffirmed to himself, _John_ was one of the people the world could not afford to lose. The fact he would never see that as true himself, made it all the more so.

He was also the one person _Finch_ could not afford to lose.

oO0Oo

Hours later, Fusco and Root found him, still sitting in an uncomfortable chair, nursing his third cup of hot-but-awful tea.

“Hear anything, yet?” Fusco asked.

Finch shook his head. “Mr. Reese is still fighting for his life.” He responded dismally, and shivered. “But he is… alive.” He looked up at each of them in turn. “What of our crime scene?”

“We figured it would be easiest if nobody knew Mr. Happy was ever there. So we did a little set dressing.” He handed over John’s .45 they’d found on the floor in the house.

“Please,” Finch shook his head. “You hold on to it for him.”

Tucking the weapon back into his belt, Fusco continued. “Found his back-up piece in the car before we ditched it where no one will find it _or_ the blood all over the seat. We cleaned the prints off the gun, and left it on the porch but you’ll have to make it look like it was registered to Chase some time previously. Nutella said you could do that?”

Finch nodded.

“Good. Then the local sheriff will believe Chase managed to shoot the guy after he made him OD. Only issue is Patterson - _he’s_ gotta know Dark and Stormy was there. What are we gonna do about _him_?”

Finch answered softly without looking up. “We will simply explain to him that while Detective Riley was investigating his case, he was stricken with a virulent illness. An illness that prevented the detective from ever making it out to the cabin. With the amount of drugs in his system it’s possible he may not remember John being there. And if he does… well… we did save his life. He will simply need to be convinced. The story will also serve to explain John’s absence to his colleagues at the station.”

Root sat next to Finch and patted his leg. “I’ll stay and talk to Chase when he wakes up. I still need to plant gunshot residue on his hands so I’ll establish myself as his friend to the doctor... You’ll be busy with John’s care… we can’t stay here long.”

While Finch looked at Root with apprehension, sharing her concern that Samaritan would soon locate them here, Fusco nodded in satisfaction. “That’s that, then. End of story. Carter’s case - all neatly tied up in a bow. That oughta make our mutual friend feel good about the universe.”

“Speaking of John,” Root inquired. “I know you haven’t heard much since you got here - how was he when you arrived?”

Finch continued to stare down at the floor just past his knees. “It took them quite some time to get his heart started again. It never did achieve a normal rhythm.” His voice was small. “He was too cold.”

Fusco grimaced and went to get himself a cup of coffee. They all still felt the chill.

Just then one of the doctors in Finch’s folder came out to them. “Mr. Wren...” He paused upon seeing the others.

“This is Chase’s doctor.” Finch introduced him. “We spoke earlier.”

Root interrupted. “I’d really like to see Chase. May I?” She asked.

The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but then remembered the information the man before him held. Information that could end his career. “Of course.”

Root smiled sweetly and left.

“Mr. Patterson will make a full recovery once the drugs are out of his system. He will remain here for 48 hours’ observation and then be transferred to a care facility of which his estate is part owner. Is that satisfactory?"

“Yes, thank-you. Very.” Finch responded politely. “Is there any news of Mr. Randolph?” Finch had registered John under yet another alias in hopes of delaying Samaritan.

The doctor sighed, obviously loathe to be the bearer of anything but good news. “His is not my case. But I can tell you that his condition is precarious. A human body chilled to that extent is extremely fragile - the smallest thing can disrupt the body’s systems. But the staff here are excellent and are taking every precaution.   The good news is that if he survives the next few hours it is highly likely that he will recover completely with no negative side effects other than some sensitivity to cold.”

He looked up as Root returned wiping her hands on a paper towel.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have other patients.” And he left.

Both Fusco and Finch looked expectantly at Root. “GSR is all taken care of.” She smiled and got her own cup of coffee. “Did he know anything about John?”

“Nothing.” Finch told her and stood. “Please excuse me, I must make arrangements for John’s care as soon as he can be moved. It’s not safe here.” He did not mention that they still did not know if ‘further care’ would be necessary. They still did not know if John would survive long enough to need it.

Finch chose not to think of it. It was better to simply assume that he would.

oO0Oo  
TBC…  
oO0Oo  


 


	7. Tag to the Tag 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is partly because Ravenhusker pointed out - quite logically and correctly IMHO - that John would not change overnight. - Also - I still need to address what happened to the photo...
> 
> Thank-you from the bottom of my heart to all who reviewed and those who encouraged me to finish this. Couldn't have done it without you!

oO0Oo  
oO0Oo

"John? John. Time to wake up, John."

"Mm?" He was still cold. He was alive, obviously. There was a dull ache in his shoulder, and there was a very distinct feeling of grogginess that meant he had been given some pretty powerful drugs. He also felt crisp sheets against his skin. He figured if he was this well taken care of, he must be somewhere safe.

Why was he still cold?

"You're gonna feel cold for a while. Hot too - sometimes. It takes the body a while to get back to it's normal rhythms."

"Joss?"

There was a smoky chuckle, and suddenly John felt a little warmer.

"You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?" She asked.

"Nothing easy about it." He whispered. He fought to pry his eyes open. He wanted to see her. "You left."

He felt her hand in his once again. He finally managed to pry his eyes open when he felt his bed shift as she sat beside him.

She considered his accusation. "Did I, John?" she asked mysteriously. "Maybe you're just dreaming.

John chuckled low and then coughed. "Don't think so - no pain in dreams."

"Did you listen to Finch?" She asked him expectantly.

"Yes."

She smiled. "Did you take it to heart?"

He regarded her with sad eyes. "No."

She gazed at him seriously for a moment, then sighed. "John…"

But he broke away and stared at the wall.

She tilted her head to the other side. "Didn't you hear _anything_ I said to you in the car?"

He kept staring at the wall without seeing it. The drugs must really have him loopy because there was a lump in his throat that he was having an inordinate amount of difficulty swallowing.

"Did you?" She demanded.

He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. He wouldn't cry. He hadn't even cried when he'd heard Jessica was dead. He hadn't cried until after - until the night he left New Rochelle for the last time and realized what he had done.

He hadn't shed another tear until the night Carter was taken from him - the very same night he had finally realized that he loved her. "I loved you." he whispered and she smiled. "I loved you for a long time. I just… I just didn't know it."

She caressed his hand and waited for him to continue.

"I figured it out too late." Then a little bit of anger rescued him from the tears. "You say I should open up… let people in…" he protested almost desperately. "But every time I do…" He gazed up at her, then closed his eyes and a tear rolled down the side of his face.

"So you shouldn't have loved me… is that it?" She challenged.

"Joss…" He protested, wanting to explain.

"You should never know love or happiness or joy? Just do your job. And do it well. Is that it, John? Is that all there is for you?"

He took a deep breath, the motion pulling at his stitches until he moaned out the air. The pain helped to clear his mind. "Yes." he answered simply.

"You're so afraid of losing something that you won't even try to have it."

"Not worth it."

"No?"

"No."

"John-"

"Joss, if I'd held you at a distance, like I should have, you wouldn't have been there. You'd still be alive. Taylor would still have a mom. The city would still have it's best detective. The world would still have you..." He just looked at her. "That's more important."

"And you'd be dead." She said. Then she was quiet, watching him.

He looked back, earnest, wanting her to understand. "I know what you want for me, you and Finch. I do. I just…"

"You're scared." She said simply, gently.

He looked at her, a little surprised.

"It's okay to be scared, John… You know it is. From your very first firefight, you knew it. You know there's a chance you'll get shot- maybe even die. You're scared. But you prepare for it. And sometimes you _get_ hurt. Sometimes you get hurt _bad_. But you get up and you go again. You always have."

"That's not the same thing." He told her.

"That's _exactly_ the same thing." Came her retort.

"No."

"Why not?"

" _Those_ wounds _heal_."

"Mr. Reese?"

Ignoring the undeniable truth he'd just pointed out, Joss glanced at the doorway as if she knew her time with John was limited. "What if you hadn't shut me out? What if you'd figured it out sooner? Think about what we could have had! Now, I know you regret that, and you always will- but there _will_ be a _next time_ , John. You have a chance to change. To get it right next time. And you might get hurt… but you might not. You might find love - happiness - I want that for you, John. Think about it."

"Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese? He seems to be in some distress, can you… yes. Thank-you."

John felt a warmth spreading through his body and everything became blurry. He could barely make out Joss, but he could still feel her. He held onto her hand until the drugs pulled him under once more.

oO0Oo

Finch sat and worried. Actually, 'worried' probably wasn't quite the right word. He had 'worried' before, not knowing if John would survive the night. This was something different.

John _had_ survived. The doctor had assured Finch early that morning that with enough rest John would make a full recovery. But now Finch wondered how much rest would _be_ enough. They were here on borrowed time, he knew. It wasn't safe in the hospital. They'd done a pretty amazing job of keeping their presence secret, but Finch knew it was only a matter of time before Samaritan found them. How long was it safe to keep John here? How dangerous would it be to move him?

Finch stood. He needed to stretch his aching muscles and thought that a little pacing might help to clear his head.

Shortly before Root and Fusco had returned to the city they had all been allowed to visit John. Finch had then traded his hard, uncomfortable chair in the hall for the soft, uncomfortable one in John's room. He'd been there ever since.

John was still asleep, although the doctor had told him before he'd left that he'd adjusted John's medication to allow him to wake up gradually.

On his second crossing of the small space between the wall and the bed, Finch bumped into a table. Vaguely annoyed, he grabbed to steady the items on top before they could fall and wake John. But an envelope escaped his grasp and slipped to the floor.

He recognized the envelope as the package of John's personal belongings the hospital had collected as they cut his clothes away in order to treat him.. Finch hadn't opened it. He had no intention of opening it - they were John's belongings. But when he bent to retrieve it a photograph slipped out onto the floor. He picked it up intending to replace it, but couldn't help seeing what it was a picture of… _Who_ it was a picture of.

It was a picture of John and Jessica - in a simpler, happier time. He felt very much as if he was intruding, but he couldn't help gazing at the photo - a photo of a man he knew well - and yet - barely recognized.

"Different time -" Came a rasp from behind him. "-Different person."

Finch turned to see half-open eyes watching him look at the photo.

For a long moment, Finch simply looked back. He'd been told almost thirty-six hours ago that John would survive, but he realized that he hadn't been fully convinced until this moment. He found himself to be exceptionally relieved.

He also remembered everything that had been said in the car before John's heart had stopped and the helicopter had made it's near miraculous appearance. He glanced back down at the photo. "Different time - yes." He spoke softly and limped over to the bedside. "But different person?"

"Finch…" John was tired of arguing about this.

\- Nevermind the fact that the only 'person' he'd ever argued about it with was himself.

"We are all different people than we were in the past, Mr. Reese." Finch told him. "We are always changing... _How_ we change is often up to the choices of the individual. _Of course_ you are a different person. So am I... We have looked into the abyss. One _cannot_ do that without coming away changed."

John gazed back at him for a long moment. An entire conversation passed between them wordlessly, as it often did.

Then John spoke, seeming to change the topic. "How long will we be safe here?"

Finch didn't want to answer, and he knew he didn't really need to. John already knew the danger involved with staying in a random hospital for too long. He was asking if there was any imminent threat of which he was unaware - and Finch didn't want to respond because he simply didn't know.

So John ended the conversation by grabbing the bed rail, sliding his legs over the edge and pulling himself to a sitting position.

"Mr. Reese!" Finch protested.

After a pausing a moment to rest, John pulled himself to his feet and took two, rather wobbly, steps - just enough to reach the wall which he leaned against and proceeded to look back into Finch's worried gaze.

"Finch-" He began a bit breathlessly. "You want me to… 'open up...' to people...? To you?" He stared so intently - honestly expecting an answer.

So Finch nodded once… and waited.

"Well this is me - opening up to you." He whispered finally, then continued. "I feel… sick. I'm weak... cold."

And Finch understood how difficult it was for him to confess these vulnerabilities.

"I'm a bit shaky right now." John continued doggedly.

To the untrained eye, he seemed uninterested in Finch's reaction… but Finch knew how closely he was being watched.

"My chest is... on fire, and I'm not sure, at the moment, what I could accomplish if faced with a… a violent opponent." He took a moment to look around the room, although FInch suspected he was catching his breath. "But... it's not safe here… for either of us." And he staggered over to the table and opened the drawer, pulling out his sidearm, checking and loading the mag automatically.

At Finch's expression - firearms were not normally included in hospital supplies - John merely said, "Fusco." by way of explanation.

Finch's wide eyes narrowed and he nodded in understanding.

Still leaning heavily on the table John locked gazes with his employer and friend - probably the best friend he'd ever had. "Harold - I've done this… 'healing thing' more than once - and there's one thing I can tell you with certainty: I heal faster... when I can move."

Finch had nothing to say to that. And, if he were honest, he'd witnessed the truth of that statement more times than he cared to think about.

"And _if_ Samaritan _is_ coming… _I'd prefer to face them standing… and armed…"_ He cocked his weapon for emphasis. "Wouldn't _you_ rather I be armed?" He paused, almost as if daring Finch to argue.

He didn't say a word.

"So…?" John asked, reaching out one arm in a silent request for aid. "Should we get out of here?"

Finch looked at the outstretched arm for a brief moment - and was reminded of a desperate night in a parking garage. Then he tucked the photo into an inside pocket and moved - as he had then - to place himself under that arm. "I am ready if you are, Mr. Reese." He murmured as he felt a portion of John's weight settle on his shoulders.

"Then let's get back to saving the world, Harold. Shall we?"

And so both men moved - together.

Both knowing that everything… and nothing... had changed.

They were moving into the dawn of a new day - but the same fight. And they both believed that somehow - against all odds - while they themselves might not survive - _their cause would._

And what else mattered?

oO0Oo  
FIN  
oO0Oo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Not completely satisfied with it... but it was time to 'land the plane.' If you have a moment, leave a note and let me know what you thought. Thanks! Papaya


End file.
